


Watching Doom Fall (Because Even Hell has Beauty on its Own)

by iamslytherlocked



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamslytherlocked/pseuds/iamslytherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In times like these, promises were better left unsaid.</p><p>“Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed.” - Troy, 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching Doom Fall (Because Even Hell has Beauty on its Own)

The people of the barricade had allowed themselves to go to a troubled sleep, thoughts of the impending - possibly final - battle filling wakeful dreams. Some had themselves in comfortable positions on pieces of furniture, while others made do with empty spots on the ground.

Grantaire sat stonily at the bottom of the barricade, hands toying with an empty bottle of absinthe. He cast his drunken eyes to the skies. All that greeted him was the pitch darkness of the night sky. He returned his eyes to the dusty green bottle in his hands. The stars weren’t bright that night and the colours in front of him were still very much clear. He needed another bottle. Before it all ended.

He straightened up, gave a half-hearted wave at Courfeyrac who was taking the watch. His wave was returned just as half-assedly, for truthfully they were all tired; of fighting, of believing and of hoping. For they knew when they woke up, it would he their last. They tried fighting for a better France, idealism filling their heads. But idealism would always be idealism, and it emptied, like water in a drain out to sea.

They would fight again in the morning, but not with idealism. Not when their last bit of hope had been dashed with the blood of their comrades that dotted the street, the scent of gunpowder pervading the air.

Cynicism might have fared better than wishful thinking, Grantaire reflected. 

His mind however ran to the image of a man, the man that was filled with infectious idealism and wishes for a better, mightier France. A glowing entity of red and gold that had in his heart only pure vision and none of pragmatism nor disbelief.

No, Grantaire chuckled, cynicism would not have fared well for him at all. 

Then again, what had idealism bought him but a future in blood and a meeting in death? For him and for the rest of them?

The taste of absinthe burned on his tongue, and he ached for another drink, as the images of Enjolras seared into his brain like a hot iron would with deep burn marks. He wanted to dull the colour, the light. A light he could never serve to capture, never be able pin down. Feeling nothing with the aid of mind-numbing drink ought to feel better than the pining sensation for salvation.

Grantaire hobbled into Cafe Musain, heading for the corner where he liked to keep stashes of wine for when he needed them, like that night. His body was yearning so much for the relief alcohol brought him that he barely registered the silhouette of Enjolras, who had collapsed into chair in the shadows, face in his hands and elbows on the table.

The noise of Grantaire fumbling for a new bottle rouses Enjolras from his spot. As Grantaire took a swig from the bottle - wine this time, he’d finished his last bottle of absinthe in the stash - he could feel Enjolras’ disparaging gaze on him, probably berating him in his head for letting himself go to waste when he could be so much more.

He beckoned for the drunk to come to him, surprising Grantaire but he went towards the blonde anyway. The bottle slipped away from his fingers as Enjolras grasped it, placing it gingerly on the table and moving away from it.

“Stay still.” Enjolras let his forehead fall tiredly into the crook of Grantaire’s neck, golden curls cascading onto his green vest when they were well away from his drink. The sudden movement pushed Grantaire to sit on the wooden table.

“Grantaire, I’ve failed them.” 

For a moment, Grantaire wondered if he was dreaming. Enjolras never showed weakness and wasn’t one for intimacy especially to him. He disdained touch and made imperfection a sin. Yet here he was in his arms, vulnerable and distraught. Grantaire couldn’t think. His mind reeled with confusion. His fingers itched for the bottle, hoping to drown out possibly another illusion. They liked to plague him on miserable nights.

But the bottle had been removed, taken away from his hands when Enjolras had walked him away from it. 

“Us? You didn’t fail us, not us.” Grantaire replied, patting him softly on the back.

There was a scoff from beneath the curls. “Death is upon us tomorrow. I can feel it.” 

Grantaire stiffened. True, he had believed they would lose their lives here, but he hadn’t thought Enjolras would think so. Enjolras was gold, the epitome of want and will. The one who took root in their heads with his words for France. Though here he was, shedding his layers of perceived strength to the vulnerable shell of a young boy who had been trying too hard to be a man. 

“Now where is that hopeful, idealistic lad who spoke of Patria as if she were his mistress?” Grantaire chuckled, attempting to make the atmosphere a little lighter.

“Funny how you say those words when you believed in our death since the beginning. It was probably the only thing you believed in.” Enjolras heaved a ragged sigh against his shoulder. “Well, you are right.”

The reek of alcohol of Grantaire’s clothes must be strong, but Enjolras had not stirred from his spot. He did not seem to care at all.

“There is hope yet.” 

They are both empty words they both knew weren’t true but needed to grasp on for that little bit of light that maybe things will turn out okay.

Enjolras snorted. “You truly believe that we might succeed? You, Grantaire? You, who never believed in anything?” 

Finally, Grantaire hesitantly drew his arms around Enjolras’ trembling body. He felt Enjolras let himself be enveloped by his unfamiliar arms, curling into the hug. The warmth in Grantaire’s arms was unfathomable, and the warmth that laced the edges of his heart was warmth that alcohol could never bring. 

Desperately, he prayed - the first time in many, many years after he’d lost his faith - that it wasn’t a dream. That he wouldn’t have to wake up to nothing except the pain of emptiness left in his chest.

“I believe in you.” He muttered, placing all the hope he had ever had into five syllables that sang itself into Enjolras’ ears.

Enjolras clutched him a little harder upon hearing those words, non-responding, and Grantaire reciprocrated. But the warmth left his arms as Enjolras pulled away at last. His face was stoic again, but there was a hint of underlying doubt. And maybe even a bit of desire. “If… If we come out alive, I-“

Grantaire stopped him. “No, don’t make promises we both know cannot be kept.”

“Tomorrow could be our last.” Enjolras sighed, ruffling his hair in frustration. 

Grantaire could feel his last pieces of self-control crumble beneath him, the want to touch the man in front of him, to kiss away the self-doubt, to allow himself to fall so deep before they meet the impending doom of tomorrow. Doom only made everything so much more beautiful, as black painted over red, over gold, over blue and white and everything that to him was the sun. But he restrained himself, only allowing himself to raise his hand to run over the smooth of Enjolras’ cheek.

“I know.” Grantaire felt a smile curling at the edges of his mouth. “But we’ll see about tomorrow if we live. We’ll make promises then.”

He let his arm fall, while he stumbled over to his bottle, unable to face the man he wanted to protect so fiercely and so dearly.

“Good night, Enjolras.” 

Grantaire needed a drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://drinktogaysgoneby.tumblr.com)!


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